


Dreamer

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the giving-in and before the killing blow, a soon-to-be-deposed First Enchanter dreams of what might have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> For comparison, My headcanon dictates that: Orsino doesn’t remember his family or whether he had one at all; he was a slow learner and accident-prone and was censured often; he barely passed his Harrowing; his closest friend (and occasional lover) was possessed during his own Harrowing and immediately struck down; the former First Enchanter was killed and Orsino thrust into his role without much ceremony; and of course you will recognise the rest of it.

Deep within the Harvester, before Hawke’s greatsword deals the killing blow, the former First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle dreams.

Swathed in something warm — wool, perhaps, but it wasn’t scratchy enough to be wool, was it — he nestles in a strong pair of arms as the wind buffets both him and his carrier. “Look, out there,” and the child follows the pointing finger out, out towards the sea, the restless tumble of waves and froth. He squints against the stinging spray, turning his face back towards the warmth, towards the steadily beating heart under layers of clothing. The man chuckles, hefting the child in his arms for a more secure grip. “That, my child, is the Waking Sea. I don’t think it ever sleeps, to be honest.  
I know it’s cold here. We’ll be back home soon. Just a quick stop in Kirkwall, and we’ll be on our way.”

And he is still a child, but it is warm now, because he is indoors. The Circle library’s shelves loom on all sides, floor to vaulted ceiling, and the child is almost invisible curled up in a chair with a tome nearly as big as he is. Safely tucked into his pockets are letters — from his mother and his father, and older sister Aisling, who’s gotten hooked up with a band of Dalish. Ansburg is lonely without him, they all say. If only they could visit, they all say. But the letters would have to stop soon — they were in danger of being intercepted, and the beloved child was doing much too well in his studies to be written up for forbidden correspondence.  
Keep doing well, they all say, before the letters finally dry up. You’ll change things someday. For everyone.

After his Harrowing, he is congratulated, smiled upon, embraced. The First Enchanter beams as he hands the new Circle mage his robes, his staff, his ring. “We expect great things from you,” they all say. And when Laurence follows, passing his Harrowing and greeting Orsino in his own mage robes, they celebrate together, privately, with smiles and words created only for each other.

It is the old and wizened First Enchanter who urges the recently-lauded Senior Enchanter into his own well-worn shoes. Orsino is younger than the others, but he was always quick, always passionate, always a beacon of light for the frightened and anxious apprentices. As an Enchanter he’d had an apprentice-to-mage success rate higher than anyone else — only two of his students later became Tranquil, and they were now amazing runecrafters. “Senior Enchanters are not always chosen merely because of their age,” the First Enchanter reminds everyone, even as eyebrows were raised at Orsino’s sleek black hair and unlined features.  
He is only just beginning to show touches of grey at his temples when the former First Enchanter goes to his rest and passes his staff on to Orsino.  
“I will have no one else fill my role,” he says stoutly, and though Orsino mourns his passing as surely as anyone else, his heart swells with pride to know that he has served well, and can now serve a greater purpose.

The new Knight-Commander is severe, dagger-eyes and dagger-tongue, but Orsino stands his ground.  
He reins in his passion and approaches her with a steady heart and steady hands. She rushes at him in a blazing fury, but he does not budge, and his very proximity dampens her fire.  
She tries to wrest control from him, but his grip is iron.  
These are his children and his companions — he has taken an oath to protect them when the Chantry cannot, and he will not break this oath. He will not kneel.

The Grand Cleric appraises him for his patience and fortitude. “I would have expected you to retaliate, Orsino. But you show remarkable strength in these dark times. Perhaps we can come to a concordance with the Templars and stave off this impending war.”

Temptation is unavoidable, and perhaps the enterprising apostate with the passion for Transformation means well. But the First Enchanter has him brought before his desk instead, cautioning the templars against using undue force.  
The apostate is furious, furious, and nearly kills the templars. But Orsino quells him, extricating the details of the man’s sorrowful story, and vows that he will keep the Knight-Commander’s fury at bay.  
The apostate’s wife is laid to rest, and perhaps he never gets past it, but he has a stalwart friend in the First Enchanter, for whom he researches new ideas in the School of Creation.

But war is inevitable, and though Orsino has done as much as he could to keep the Knight-Commander from tightening her grip, she is stronger than him. The templars are tougher. The Circle is cinched. The apostates attempt to free their brethren, and incite rebellion.  
And there is one apostate, the Fereldan healer, bitter rival of the Champion, who lights up the cloudy afternoon sky in a way no sun could ever.

In the heart of the Circle, there is a ring of mages. The templars are breaking down the doors, their boots thunderous on the floors outside this room, but in here it is as if time has stopped and all is silent. The First Enchanter has brought them here, these Senior Enchanters and Enchanters and Enchanters-in-training, to bolster their confidence and let them know that he will fight for them as best he can.  
But they are standing around him, hands linked and gripped tight, facing away from him and towards the doors that now shake with the templars’ battering.  
Orsino has kept this Circle together, and they refuse to let it be broken.

Time resumes. The templars burst in.  
And the Circle is broken, eventually, by the greatswords and lyrium-aided skills of these stony-faced men, and they trample the deceased underfoot as they come for Orsino, and no matter how much fire he blasts towards them or how much will the support of his Circle has given him, they fall upon him anyway, and perhaps they rip the signet ring off his hand before they kill him, and blast his staff to smithereens before they kill him, but there is one inalienable truth — the former First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle does not die in vain.

Deep within the Harvester, the former First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle dreams. And then Hawke’s greatsword deals the killing blow, and the dreamer dies in vain.


End file.
